Hoodie

by S. Walden

  Emma snatched the picture from him and returned it to the desk.

  “My father still doesn’t know I’ve grown up,” she said.

  Mr. Chapman chuckled then asked about dinner.

  “That’s why we came in here to get you,” Emma said.

  Mr. Chapman placed his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and kissed her forehead. She rolled her eyes and waved for them both to follow her to the dining room.

  Emma’s mother had laid the table, and it looked delicious. Unfortunately for Anton, his nerves were too jumpy to really appreciate it. He noticed a bottle of wine and four extra glasses laid out that he didn’t put there. That was peculiar, he thought.

  Once everyone was seated—Anton across from Emma and her parents across from each other—the food was passed.

  “I’ll say the blessing before we eat,” Anton offered, passing the mashed potatoes to Mrs. Chapman. They all froze then Mrs. Chapman regained her composure.

  “That would be lovely,” she said.

  Anton noticed the awkwardness elicited by his offer. Did these people not say grace before dinner? And then he remembered Emma saying that she didn’t “do church.” Oh God, why did he open his mouth?

  “Anton? We’re ready,” Mr. Chapman said.

  “Oh, yes sir,” he said quickly.

  He looked around the table and folded his hands. They did the same. He bowed his head slowly still watching them, and they followed suit.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he began, closing his eyes. He took a deep breath. His mind went blank. What was he praying about again? Think, Anton, think. Why was he here? Oh, he was gonna kill Emma. Bye bye, sweet Emma. You goin’ in the ground, girl. I can’t even believe I’m sittin’ here in this million dollar house about to eat with yo’ parents who prolly think I’m some kinda thug or something. Why’d I offer to say the blessing? What kinda dumb shit do that at someone else’s house they don’t know?

  Emma kicked him underneath of the table.

  “Dear Heavenly Father,” he said, remembering that he needed to bless the food. “Thank you for this lovely meal. Thank you for the hands that prepared it. Please make it a nourishment to our bodies, as I’m sure it will be because it looks real good. I can’t even imagine how long it took to prepare such a lovely meal.”

  He paused for a moment not knowing what else to say. Should he thank God that he has the opportunity to work with Emma on their school project? Would her parents like that? He decided against it.

  “It is such a lovely meal, Lord, and we are so grateful to you for the opportunity to eat it.”

  How should I end this, he thought?

  “It is perhaps the loveliest meal I have ever seen, Lord. And we know that Mrs. Chapman worked real hard to prepare it. And that makes her a wonderful lady . . . uh, the most wonderful lady in the world, perhaps. Thank you for blessing us with this meal. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”

  He looked up then and was greeted by two slightly perplexed faces staring at him. He knew he butchered that prayer, and he also knew who he’d be taking it out on later.

  “That was so lovely, Anton,” Mrs. Chapman said. “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you welcome,” Anton replied.

  He looked at Emma whose head was still bowed. She was grinning, he could tell. She tried to hide it, but he saw. Yeah, you go on and grin, girl. You don’t even know what’s comin’, he thought sourly.

  “So you go to church, son?” Mr. Chapman asked.

  “Uh, yes sir,” Anton replied. “Mount Zion Baptist.”

  He noticed an almost imperceptible look of relief on Mr. Chapman’s face. He turned to Emma’s mother and noticed that she, too, seemed more relaxed. He smiled to himself. So now they think I’m alright ‘cause I go to church, he thought. They don’t go to church. They nothin’ but a bunch of freakin’ heathens, but as long as I go. He wanted to be pissed, but the delicious aroma wafting from the chicken urged him to change his mind. He took a deep breath and forced himself to relax. He remembered how much he loved food and decided that he would make every effort to enjoy himself.

  “Now Anton,” Mr. Chapman began, reaching for the wine bottle. “We let baby girl here have a glass of wine at dinner sometimes. You certainly don’t have to take any if you don’t want to, but you are more than welcome.”

  Anton watched as Mr. Chapman got up from the table to pour his wife a glass and then pour one for Emma. Is this how rich white people do, he thought? Let they underage kids drink alcohol at dinner? It was prolly some fancy, expensive wine, he thought. This must be what cultured people do. And how they gonna think it’d be alright with his mama, them offering him wine? Well, maybe they didn’t think he had a mama. Maybe they thought he was on his own, poor and black, and they’d try to give him a sampling of the finer things before he had to go back out on the streets.

  “You don’t have to have any,” Emma said quietly.

  “Nah, I’ll have a glass,” he said. “Thank you.”

  Mr. Chapman poured Anton a glass, and he took a sip. It wasn’t like any wine he had ever tasted, certainly not the cheap stuff down on the corner at Ellie’s Grocer, he thought. It tasted rich and dark. And pricey.

  “So Anton, where do you live?” Mr. Chapman asked, seating himself once more.

  “Uh, off Greenbriar Road,” Anton replied. So much for enjoying his food and wine.

  “Greenbriar Road, Greenbriar Road,” Mr. Chapman said to himself. “I don’t think I’m familiar with that road.” He was clearly waiting for Anton to specify.

  “West Highland Park,” Anton said reluctantly.

  Mrs. Chapman cleared her throat.

  “Oh yes,” Mr. Chapman said, seemingly unphased.

  There was an awkward silence.

  “Dad, you should see Anton play basketball,” Emma said. She smiled at Anton who stared back at her frowning, shoving a roll in his mouth.

  “Oh yeah? You know, I was point guard in high school,” Mr. Chapman replied. “What position do you play?”

  “Oh, I play everything. I’m not on the school team. I just play for fun,” Anton said.

  “Well, maybe we should shoot some hoops outside after dinner,” Mr. Chapman offered.

  “That sounds like fun,” Emma said.

  Was she trying to be difficult, Anton wondered, or did she think she was actually being helpful?

  “Okay,” Anton said. He took another sip of his wine. He wanted to drown himself in it.

  The conversation progressed more easily after that. Mr. Chapman talked mostly of his job. It was evident that it consumed him, and his wife looked bored throughout most of the dinner. She did perk up, however, when the subject changed to her volunteer work and then to Emma. Apparently Emma was the most gifted ballet dancer in the world, and they were sorely disappointed that this was her last year performing. Now Emma looked bored, Anton noticed.

  Emma’s parents asked questions about the class assignment. They seemed genuinely intrigued, and Anton did his best to clarify the purpose of the paper and what he thought Dr. Thompson wanted the students to get out of it. He also tried his best to keep the details of his world to a minimum. They knew where he lived now, and that was all he was willing to share. He didn’t even want to share that, he thought bitterly. Thankfully they didn’t ask him any more personal questions.

  After dinner, Mr. Chapman excused himself to his office, shaking Anton’s hand and saying regrettably that he had case work to do. Anton was relieved that he would not have to shoot hoops with him, Mr. Chapman apparently forgetting all about the offer. He helped Emma and her mother clear the table, and thanked Mrs. Chapman once again for dinner. She told him she was glad he came and that he was welcome back any time.

  Emma walked him out to his car.

  “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.

  “I guess not,” Anton said. “Well, apart from my dumbass blessing and having to tell yo’ parents where I live and them actin’ like they wasn’t completely embarrassed for m
e. Oh yeah, and bein’ offered alcohol at eighteen and feelin’ like I ain’t sophisticated, like I don’t understand that this what cultured people do—let they underage kids drink alcohol at the dinner table. Except for all that, it was great.”

  Emma shrugged.

  “Look, I gotta get home. I wanna get outta these clothes and lay on my bed and listen to some music.”

  “Oh. Okay.” She wondered if he would listen to “Hit ‘Em Up.”

  He noted the look of disappointment on her face. “I ain’t mad, Emma. I just feel like an idiot.”

  Anton opened the car door and climbed in.

  “Please don’t feel that way,” she pleaded.

  “Oh okay,” he said irritably, and snapped his fingers. “I don’t feel like an idiot no more!”

  “Don’t be mean,” she said quietly.

  “I’m sorry,” he replied and looked her over. “Look, I gotta go.”

  “Well, when do you want to get together next?” she asked hopefully.

  “I don’t know. I’ll call you,” he said and pulled away before she had time to respond.

  Emma watched as the Ford rounded the corner and disappeared. She tried to be reasonable, but the tightening in her chest was all too real. She didn’t want him to go.

  CHAPTER 9

  SATURDAY, APRIL 24

  Emma sat on the swing watching Anton.

  “Are you still mad at me about dinner?” she asked.

  “Girl, I was never mad at you,” Anton replied. He was in the swing next to her. There were only two left out of the original six that weren’t broken. He had taken her to the neighborhood playground because it was a lovely warm day, the breeze blowing occasionally, and he didn’t want to be cooped up inside.

  “You seemed like you were last night,” Emma said. “I didn’t think you’d call me today.”

  “Well, I did. Okay?”

  Emma said nothing. Anton suddenly wished he hadn’t called her. He was still annoyed by last night and wanted to punish her for it. He knew it was ridiculous, as though not calling her to hang out would punish her. The truth was that it would only punish him. He was angry that he liked her so much and she seemed oblivious. Or perhaps she did know and simply didn’t share his feelings. He didn’t know which was worse.

  “Did you ever think you could swing so high that you would flip over?” Emma asked, breaking his contemplation. “You know, when you were little?”

  “Yeah,” he replied. “I would try real hard. Never got there though.”

  “Well, it’s physics,” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, although he didn’t.

  Emma scanned the dilapidated playground. There was an old metal merry-go-round. She had only seen them in movies. She didn’t know they still existed and wondered how something like that could. She imagined a child getting caught underneath of it. The thought was horrifying. There was a metal slide as well. It was peppered with graffiti and looked like it had not been used in years. Where did the children play, she thought? In fact, where were the children? It was a perfect Saturday afternoon, and they were the only two people outside.

  “Anton?” she asked.

  “Hmm?”

  “Where are all the children?”

  Anton looked around. “I don’t know. They prolly inside playing video games or down at the store. How should I know?”

  “Look, if you want me to leave, just say the word. You’ve been pissy since I got here, and I don’t need to hang around that,” she snapped.

  He looked at her and snickered. “Look at what you wearin’. Who wear that on a Saturday? You own any regular clothes? You know, T-shirts, jean shorts or whatever?”

  Emma got out of the swing and started walking towards her car. Anton jumped up to follow.

  “Emma, I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what my problem is,” he said, catching up to her and grabbing her hand.

  She wheeled around. “You can’t talk to me like that! I haven’t done anything to you!”

  He wanted to say she had. She made him have dinner with her parents.

  “You right. And I’m sorry.”

  He wanted to tell her how he felt about her right there, but he was too afraid. She would laugh at him, he was sure. Or she would slink away and never talk to him again, saying she’d be happy to do the entire project herself and put his name on it. The words were there; they were locked and loaded. But he couldn’t.

  “Will you just come inside?” he asked.

  She thought for a moment then nodded grudgingly.

  ***

  “I know what you think,” Emma said. “You think I’m a priss pot.”

  Anton smirked as he let his eyes rove over her blouse and trousers. He was making a great effort to be in a better mood for her.

  “Yeah, you a priss pot.”

  She had no reply but stood there in the center of his room taking in the wall posters. By now she knew most of the rappers. They were waving guns at her and giving her the middle finger. She thought she should feel offended, but she had gotten used to them.

  Anton walked towards her and stood within inches of her body. He reached out to feel the soft fabric hugging her waist. She jumped at his touch, but he ignored it.

  “Why you gotta be all put together all the time?” he asked, not looking at her but studying the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

  “I don’t know.”

  Anton moved his hand to the pearl necklace around her throat. He tentatively touched the pearls one by one, this time watching her face. She was flushed and embarrassed, and he was glad for it. He thought that if he couldn’t voice his feelings, he might touch her instead. Touching seemed easier.

  “These real?” he asked smoothing his forefinger over the pearls.

  “Yes,” she replied. She couldn’t understand why there was a note of shame in her voice.

  Anton laughed aloud again. “‘Course they are.”

  “You’re making fun of me,” she said indignantly.

  “Girl, I ain’t tryin’ to make fun. It’s just so easy,” Anton replied. “How you stay put together like this all the time?”

  “They’re just clothes. What’s the big deal?”

  “You all proper and uptight in that shit,” Anton said.

  He moved away from her towards his dresser. She watched as he opened the top drawer and removed a large sky blue hoodie emblazoned with the UNC Tar Heels logo across the front. She remembered that he wore it the day she introduced herself to him in English class. He threw the hoodie over his shoulder and turned back to her.

  “Don’t you ever get tired of always tryin’ to be perfect and look perfect?”

  “I’m not trying to look perfect.”

  “Oh, who you kiddin’? Look at you.” And once more his eyes raked her body.

  She said nothing but stood there determined. She lifted her face to him and willed the soft pink of her flushed cheeks to disappear. Anton approached her once more and looked down at her eyes. They were ice blue and angry and scared and excited. He made up his mind. If she punched him in the face, he would stop.

  He started at the top of the blouse, undoing the ivory buttons one by one, never taking his eyes off of hers. His hands reached her waist and gently tugged at the shirt until he freed it from her trousers. He unbuttoned to the end of the shirt letting his eyes fall to the exposed lace bra. It was pure white. He slipped his hands under the fabric of the shirt on her shoulders and pushed it to the ground. He watched her breathing rapidly.

  “Now what you need is a makeover,” he said lightly, and pulled the hoodie off of his shoulder. “Head first.”

  She helped him pull the hoodie over her head then pushed her arms through the sleeves. They were much too long. She felt silly and laughed as he pulled the hood up over her head. The material hung low over her brows, and she had to tilt her head back to see him. He was smiling at her, studying her.

  “Almost there,” he said and searched around the room until he found w
hat he was looking for. He pulled a pair of black athletic shorts out of a pile of clean laundry and threw those over his shoulder. He approached her once more, a look of determination in his eyes, and her heart beat wildly at the realization of what he planned to do next.

  Anton unbuttoned her trousers and slowly slid the material down her legs. They were soft and thin—skinny white girl legs. She placed her hand on his shoulder for balance as she stepped out of the pants. He knelt before her imagining her panties, but the hoodie covered them completely. He imagined they matched her bra—white and lacy, hugging her hips seductively.

  He considered how easy it would be to lose control, let his hands slide roughly up the length of her legs, leave faint red marks as the sign of his claim on her. It was a primal need he’d never felt, and it grew in him the longer she stood there unresisting, letting him dress her. Why was she letting him do it?

  He fought the animal urge and placed the athletic shorts on the floor for her to step into. She did, and she bent down to pull them up herself. He was relieved, not trusting himself with the shorts, only pulling on the drawstring as tightly as it would go once they were safely around her waist. He was glad, too, that he didn’t get a glimpse of her panties. He felt his racing heart slow then, the animal instinct recede into the depths of his bones to mix with the marrow, and a calm return to the focus of his task. He stood back from her and studied her new image.

  “That look better,” he said thoughtfully, and then finding his humor added, “You look like a ‘lil hood rat now. Well, except you ain’t no ho.” He paused considering. “So I guess you ain’t look like a hood rat at all.”

  “What’s a hood rat?” she asked.

  Anton smiled at her. It was playful and incredulous. “You so funny.”

  He thought in that moment that he could own her. He had transformed her, given her the image of someone he understood, and now he wanted to possess her like a child possesses a baby doll, dress her up and keep her in his room to play with and love.